


Men of Good Fortune

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon, Short, Wee!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-27
Updated: 2007-09-27
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5920768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John reflects on how Dean came to be a living Hoover. Set pre-series, while Sam is at Stanford, with a flashback to wee!Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men of Good Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published on LJ in 2007. I'm posting here in an effort to put all my fanworks in one place. It was canon-compliant at the time, but subsequent information may have rendered it non-compliant.
> 
> Here's my original author's note:  
> The idea for this came to me while I was waiting in an airport recently and had to get dinner there. Wrote it longhand on the plane that evening, and decided it needed no larger context, which is odd, because usually my stuff is longer. However, this is just a little scene out of their lives. Thanks as always to betas relli86 and my own beloved etakyma who pointed out the things that needed clarification. For those of you who can't _read my mind_.

Watching Dean attack his plate, it was hard to believe he had started out a picky eater. Mary had always indulged him, even after Sammy’s birth, but John couldn’t cater to Dean’s limited palate on the road. An early job in Bullocktown, Indiana, turned the corner for them both…. 

~*~*~*~

John could hardly take them to the single dingy diner in town for three meals per day, and there was only so much pizza a man could stand in a week. His plaintive sigh of, “Come on, kid, give your old man a break. _Try_ the kung pao?” met, as expected, with no comment except Dean’s baleful, steady gaze. But then, to John’s perspective, a miracle occurred: Dean reached silently for his plastic fork and tentatively pierced a cube of chicken. 

He sniffed the meat dubiously, still staring up at his father, but he inserted the fork in his mouth and dragged it back through his teeth, divesting it of its morsel. Dean chewed thoughtfully. Again, no word of approval or surrender escaped; Dean kept his silence unless talking to Sammy, or in absolute need of John’s attention. Nevertheless, he dipped his fork into the foil tray again, this time selecting a diced carrot, which disappeared into his mouth. He followed this with another piece of chicken, some rice, and then a scoop of celery and peanut. John’s chopsticks hovered over his own plate while he watched his son methodically demolish half the kung pao, a forkful of lo mein, and even half of the egg roll John had split between them. Only when Dean was picking at a little pile of rice kernels did John venture to ask: “Good?”

Dean shrugged. “Want your fortune cookie?” John asked. Dean shook his head. John broke one of the brittle shell-shaped cookies anyway and held out the slip of paper. “Don’t you want to see your fortune?” he asked, and instantly regretted it. Crushing the paper unread, he let it flutter into the soy sauce and held out his hands. Dean slipped from his chair and climbed into his father’s lap.

“Don’t blame you, sport,” John said into Dean’s ear. He kissed his temple. “From now on, we make our own fortunes, don’t we?” he asked, giving Dean a squidge.

“Sammy too?” Dean whispered.

John smiled. “Sammy too. He’s too little for Chinese food, anyway.” Dean twisted to look over where Sammy lay in bed, blissfully asleep. “Hey—whaddaya say tomorrow we try something else new? I saw a Greek place by the Laundromat.” Dean shrugged, but nodded, leaning into his father’s chest. “Kid, you’re gonna love baklava….”

~*~*~*~

Dean looked up from his spicy shrimp with garlic sauce at his father’s amused expression. “What?” he asked guiltily, mouth full.

“Nothin’,” John assured him. “Just wondering if you’re ever gonna master chopsticks.”

“I can handle ’em just fine,” Dean said indignantly, “but it’s not exactly the most efficient delivery system, is it, Dad?”

“Heaven help anyone who stands between you and a meal, son,” John observed with a chuckle. “Twenty-three years old and you still eat like you’re on a growth spurt.”

They finished and paid cash, dropping the money and the tip on the little plastic tray under the receipt. They both left their fortune cookies, untouched, on top of the tray with their bill.

~Fin~


End file.
